


i'll be the one who sticks around

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Series: everybody works [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games), Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Atlas CEO Rhys, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PA/Bodyguard Tim, Pining, Pre-Relationship, rhys is a huge baby when he's sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: “Your boss is dying, Tim.”“You’re not dying, you have the ‘flu,” Tim said.





	i'll be the one who sticks around

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with the idea for this AU when I should've been working on my other project. It was nice to work on something dialogue heavy and more lighthearted than my usual stuff. 
> 
> This is a modernish/not-too-distant-future AU. 
> 
> Title comes from [Jay Som's "Bus Song"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CkzyMlWojhM).

Rhys aimed his gaze up at Tim, his dark circles especially pronounced against his waxy complexion. Wrapped up in his black Egyptian cotton sheets, propped up in a nest of approximately thirty pillows in the centre of his obnoxious California King bed, he looked small and drawn. He looked like an ailing Roman Emperor in tragic repose. He looked like an industry tycoon dying of consumption while surrounded by opulence. Faced with such a performance, Tim had half a mind to look for the film crew.

“I’m dying,” he said.

Tim’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t even look away from the digital thermometer.

“Your boss is dying, Tim.”

“You’re not dying, you have the ‘flu,” Tim said.

“This isn’t the ‘flu, this is the devil.” Rhys shuddered and drew his shawl tight around his shoulders. “I have the devil in me, Tim, and he’s killing me.”

“You have a regular ‘flu. The sort of thing you pick up on the bus.” Tim rummaged through the plastic bag he’d dropped onto Rhys’ bedside table and pulled out a box of medicine.

“How dare you say that to me. I would never take the bus.” Rhys swayed a little as he spoke. “I’ll sue you for slander.”

Tim popped out two pills from the blister pack. “Go ahead. I’ll have to get my boss to cover my legal fees. Give me your hand.”

“Your boss won’t pay for anything if he’s dead. What are these? Are these just regular pills? This is the devil, Tim. You’re bringing over the counter medicine to fight the devil?”

Tim set a still-sweating bottle of orange sports drink on the table. “I left my enchanted sword at home. Take your meds, boss.”

Rhys stared down at the pills in his warm, moist palm. He was damp all over, sweat beading on his flushed forehead, his normally coiffed hair falling into his forehead in greasy strings. Tim wouldn’t say it was nice to see his insane boss like this—it certainly hadn’t been nice getting a call at five in the goddamn morning to hear him croaking on the other end that he needed Tim in his penthouse in an hour ago or he was going to fire Tim into the Sargasso. But it was a little satisfying to see the normally so put-together man looking so… human.

That must’ve been it. That warm, strange feeling in his chest was satisfaction. Nothing else would make sense. Tim sat down on the edge of Rhys’ bed, his phone in hand.

“There’s nothing funny about this,” Rhys said, looking up with a scowl. “And don’t boss me around in my own home. What is that neon orange thing? Is that Gatorade? You brought Gatorade into my home?”

“You’re dehydrated,” Tim said, absently checking his email. He’d already sent a notice to Todd to clear Rhys’ schedule for the day, postpone what could be postponed and shuffle the extremely important stuff to Yvette’s plate. She’d sent him a few emails letting him know just what she thought about _that_ plan, and what she intended to do to Tim the next time she found him.

“It’s not even Gatorade. You just bought the house brand stuff.” Rhys groaned and fell back into his no doubt obscenely expensive pillow nest.

“Quit your whining and take your medicine, boss. It’ll make you feel better.”

Todd had made gleefully sure people knew who was to blame for the sudden shift in everyone’s schedule. Tim’s inbox received five new emails in the space of 30 seconds. He sighed and clicked the screen off.

Rhys Griffiths-Whyte, heir to the Griffiths-Whyte fortune and ruthless CEO of a large multi-national corporation, cold-blooded scourge of the business world, known to end lives with the stroke of a pen, world famous cyborg and developer of cybernetic body modifications, pouted at Tim.

“I am not whining,” he whined.

“Take your damn pills or I’m going to pinch your nose and throw them down your throat.”

Rhys looked mutinous, but he did as he was told. He swallowed the pills and accepted the house branded sports drink.

“You’re fussier than my niece,” Tim said as Rhys drank with a pained expression. “Whinier, too. And she’s eight.”

“I asked you here to help me,” Rhys said, thrusting the bottle back at Tim. “And you come into my home with regular strength Tylenol and off-brand garbage juice. What do you keep looking at your phone for?”

“Todd and I are trying to rework your schedule,” Tim said. “Yvette’s going to take on the board meeting, and the all-hands strategy meeting. She’s not happy about it.”

Rhys shrugged. “She gets paid an obscene amount of money to be unhappy. She can handle it.” He nudged Tim with his foot. “Tell Todd I want notes on each meeting. Detailed ones.”

“Fine.” Tim stood up, grabbing the plastic bag from the floor, fumbling with his phone. “I got you some other things, by the way. Some soup, some microwave lunches for when you’re feeling a little more up to solids. I’ll leave the meds and the drink in here with you. If you need anything else—“

“Where are you going?” Rhys demanded.

Tim paused mid-type. “Uh. To work?”

Rhys glared at Tim, which was never very effective. Rhys might’ve had the heart and mind of a tyrant, but he had the face of a Disney prince. Round-cheeks, soft chin, pert nose, full lips and big eyes. Maybe it looked different in Rhys’ head, the way housecats thought of themselves as terrifying apex predators, stalking the serengetti, even while they wore a bell on their collar and small children kissed them on their heads.

Tim had spent his entire childhood at the mercy of a woman who could glare the paint off of battleships. He was never affected by this display.

“What part of ‘I need you here’ didn’t you understand, Tim?” Rhys asked, his voice dropping into a raspy facsimile of his usual growl. Another move from Rhys’ playbook that never worked on Tim. “You’re staying here today.”

Tim stared at him, waiting for the break in his severe look. For him to crack a smile. Surely he was joking.

But Rhys only stared back. A deposed king with a stuffy nose and a wheezing breath.

“Boss, I’ve got a full-on meltdown in my inbox,” Tim said. “I’ve got _your_ damn PA telling everyone I’m responsible for your vanishing act today. I’ve got a mountain of things I need to take care of—on top of the usual garbage you heap my way. I have enough work to keep three people busy. I can’t take a day off.”

Rhys’ expression didn’t change. Tim didn’t know why he bothered with arguing. Once Rhys made up his mind, there was nothing to be done. Reality would have to shift to accommodate him.

But Tim always tried. “Boss—“

“Stop arguing with me,” Rhys said, sniffing. “It’s impolite to deny a dying man his last wishes. Now if you’re done with the theatrics,” he went on as Tim groaned. “Go and make me some tea. I want the ginger pear white tea, brewed for exactly two minutes in water that’s been heated to exactly—“

“I know how to make your damn tea,” Tim snapped as he pulled off his jacket.

“You better make it properly!” Rhys’ weak voice followed Tim as he stepped into the hallway. “I’ll know if you haven’t! And bring me some biscuits! And a magazine!”

* * *

Whatever satisfaction Tim might’ve been feeling over Rhys’ situation before had completely vanished within the hour. As bad as his boss was normally, he was roughly a hundred times more insufferable now that he was sick. Whiny, demanding, and fussier than a new born with a rash.

Tim spent the morning seeing to his every whim. Fluffing pillows, replacing sheets, wiping the sweat from his brow, making sure he used the _right_ wash cloth, the cream-coloured one, not the rose-coloured one, the rose-coloured one was only to be used post-exfoliation, _of course_. He turned on the soothing delta-wave music. He manually adjusted the smart-window’s tinting. He brought in the aromatherapy lamp. He adjusted the tinting again, when the sun shifted its position in the sky, bringing new light that needed to be tempered.

And while he worked as Rhys’ personal bitch, he still had to put out fires back at Atlas armed with nothing but his smartphone and a tablet, assuring the important people who’ve been inconvenienced by the big boss’ sudden disappearance that they were still important, still valued, and would be seen to as soon as possible.

“What are you doing?” Rhys demanded as Tim typed a hurried reply to one of the department heads.

“Rewriting my resume,” Tim snapped.

“Well, s-s-stop it,” Rhys said. He’d started shivering not long before Tim adjusted the $5,000 aromatherapy lamp, and still hadn’t recovered. “You’re supposed to be looking after me.”

Tim had a lot of things to say about that. He could feel them building up behind the dam of his self-control. The only thing that kept him from exploding was that Rhys truly and honestly looked awful. His face had turned the colour of strawberry milk that had gone bad. His human eye looked bloodshot and glassy. He clenched his round jaw tight, but small tremors still knocked his teeth together.

Tim sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “What do you need, boss?”

* * *

Tim could barely take two steps from the bedroom door before his silenced phone would chime with a new notification. It always chimed when Rhys texted him. He still didn’t know how his boss had managed to do it. But then, Tim still struggled setting the alarm on his phone.

His phone chimed several times while he stood in the kitchen, typing the latest of a long string of emails out on his tablet. Tim ignored it. He paid closer attention to the pot of water he’d left to boil. He barely understood how anything worked in Rhys’ kitchen of the future. Ever since Rhys had casually informed him that his refrigerator could let him know via text when certain foods were running low, Tim had become paranoid that the kitchen was far more intelligent than it seemed. And possibly didn’t like him. Despite what he’d said before, it’d still taken Tim three attempts to get Rhys’ damn tea just right.

But boiling water seemed safe enough. His phone continued to chime as Tim made the ‘creamed wheat for sick, rich bastards’ dish, following a recipe he found in one of the glossy books Rhys kept above the counter. It seemed revolting to Tim, but Rhys’ appetite had only just barely recovered and he didn’t want to waste the opportunity. The sooner Rhys got his strength back, the sooner Tim could go home.

After the sixth chime, Tim finally gave in and checked his phone. Unsurprisingly, his notification screen was filled with ‘Rhys, Your Lord and Master’ (it’d been ‘ASSHOLE BOSS’ last week; Rhys kept changing it), but his wasn’t the only name. Athena had sent him two messages.

Athena: Are you seriously babysitting your boss right now?  
Athena: Please tell me those rumours are false.

Tim winced.

Tim: Not false sorry

The little ellipses danced on Athena’s side of the screen as Tim tried to type out the full story.

Athena: ARE YOU KIDDING ME  
Athena: WHAT ARE YOU DOING  
Tim: He got sick last week and kept ignoring it and ignoring it and then it blew up in his stupid face. This morning he woke me up at 5am. He threatened my job.  
Athena: HE HAS A STAFF  
Tim: It’s not so bad.  
Athena: HE’S RICH  
Tim: He’s too paranoid  
Tim: His last butler tried to kill him. The whole reason I have this job is b/c he doesn’t trust anyone else.  
Athena: This isn’t healthy  
Athena: you KNOW this isn’t healthy  
Athena: he’s USING YOU  
Tim: Yeah.  
Tim: But… money.  
Athena: THERE ARE BETTER WAYS TO MAKE MONEY  
Athena: sorry caps  
Athena: but I’m right  
Athena: get a new job  
Athena: before he hermetically seals you up in that apartment  
Athena: and drains the life out of you  
Tim: He’s not Dracula  
Athena: get a new job!!!!

* * *

“Where were you?” Rhys demanded upon his return.

“Belgium.” Tim set the tray carefully over Rhys’ lap.

Rhys settled back into his pillow wall, fixing Tim with a mismatched glare. “I’m so glad you can afford to make jokes while your treasured boss and only source of income slowly withers to nothing.”

“You are still not dying,” Tim said. “I’m not that lucky.”

Rhys kicked at him. Tim caught the tray before the dishes could rattle. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t laughing.” Tim grabbed the ergonomic, modern chair Rhys’ interior designer had insisted on placing in the bedroom and pulled it close to the bed.

Rhys stirred the honey-spiked creamed wheat, looking sceptical. “What is this? What’ve you made me?”

“It’s that bougie garbage you like so much. Got the recipe from your girl Martha. Organic, whole-grain farina, hemp seed butter, wildflower honey, and acai berries. All ethically sourced, and guaranteed organic.”

Rhys made a pleased noise, which sounded weaker and more pathetic than usual, travelling as it did through a wall of phlegm.

“Where’s your meal?” he asked.

“I’m not hungry,” Tim said, scrolling through the latest report.

Rhys frowned. “You should eat something.”

“Thought I might get some pizza later.”

Rhys’ frown took over more parts of his flushed babyface. “You’re not planning on leaving me here,” he said. Not even a question.

Another email came in as Tim tried to wrap up the current chain. More nonsense from Todd. Tim scowled. “You can’t actually keep me prisoner in your apartment, boss,” he said.

“I probably could,” Rhys said.

“Anyway, I heard rumours about some kind of new-fangled food delivery service. Apparently, if you give them money, restaurants will just _send_ the food to your door.”

Rhys kicked him again. “You should be more grateful to me. Do you know how many people would pay you what I’m paying you and put up with your smart mouth?”

“You love my smart mouth.”

Why couldn’t anyone just do their jobs unsupervised for a single day? Tim’s inbox was filled with stupid questions, nit-picking, finger-pointing, and ‘he-said-she-said’s. Technically, Tim wasn’t anyone’s boss, but he only answered to Rhys. This put him in a strange position of somehow being lowest on the Atlas ladder, but also untouchable. This did not stop everyone from deciding that their problems were his problems for the day.

Tim realised that Rhys hadn’t tried to get the last word, which was odd. He looked up to find Rhys engrossed in his $30 bowl of off-coloured sludge, his face bright red.

Tim frowned. “You okay, boss? You’re looking pretty flushed.”

“That’s the fever,” Rhys muttered.

Tim sighed once again. It felt as if he’d been sighing more or less constantly since he woke up. He set his tablet aside. “You should take your meds now, anyway. I think it’s been four hours since your last dose.”

Rhys finished half the bowl and took his medicine with only minor grumbling, which was a success as far as Tim was concerned. Tim cleared the dishes, covered the bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge, and told the tea kettle he needed another cup of tea. When the kettle remained silent and unmoved, Tim sighed and tapped the touch screen. One day it would work.

His phone chimed three more times while he waited. He ignored it, and tried to get what little work he could do from his new position done. Rhys was just looking for attention. It wasn’t as if either of them really thought Tim would leave.

* * *

The new dose made Rhys drowsy, which only seemed to make him more irritable. He weakly punched at his pillows until Tim sighed and fluffed them for him. He pushed up the sleeves of his pyjama top, kicked off his sheets, and mopped his forehead with the washcloth. And then he complained that it wasn’t the right washcloth.

“I’m hot,” he grumbled.

Tim set down a fresh bowl of cold water and a clean washcloth. He pressed the back of his hand against Rhys’ forehead and frowned.

“You do feel warmer,” he admitted.

“The devil is trying to boil me from the inside,” Rhys said. His one eye had gotten glassier, the whites shot through with trails of red, the pupil wide and dilated.

Tim pressed his lips together and tried to think. Maybe he should’ve called the doctor. He’d assumed Rhys had just been exaggerating, but if this was serious…

Some of the angry petulance drained from Rhys’ expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Tim,” he said with a sigh. “I’m not…” He let his eyes close, those thick lashes brushing against the roundness of his cheeks. “I’m not that sick.” He looked as if the admission pained him.

Tim’s eyebrows went up. “Really?” he said.

“If my brain were actually boiling, I’d be delirious by now. Here—“ Rhys waved his hand towards the nightstand. “Check my temperature. See for yourself.”

Still frowning, Tim retrieved the thermometer from the nightstand. Rhys tipped his head to the side without a fuss and let Tim aim the device into his ear. A click of a button later and Tim had his reading: 40.02 celsius.

“There,” Rhys said, settling back. “It’s bad, but it’s not actually life-threatening. You can stop worrying.”

Tim put the thermometer away. It was almost funny. Tim had been working for this man for a little under a year now, close to seven days a week. Even on his rare day off, Rhys somehow found a way to insert himself into Tim’s business. He should be used to Rhys’ eccentricities. But he still managed to surprise him.

“Well, it’s not that you shouldn’t _worry_ worry about me,” Rhys went on, picking at his sheets. “I mean, it’s still pretty bad. And I still feel awful.”

Tim sat down on the edge of the mattress. He picked up the soaking washcloth and wrung it out.

“Tell me what you need, boss,” he said, handing it to Rhys.

Rhys accepted it with a sniff. Except it wasn’t his usual haughty bullshit. It was more like a sniffle.

“Well,” he began, examining the cloth with his lips pursed. “For starters—“

“If you tell me to fetch you another washcloth, I’m going to feed it to you.”

Rhys sniffled again, but remained silent.

Tim reclaimed the leather chair that likely cost more than a month’s rent for his apartment, picked up his tablet, and resumed damage control.

* * *

What Rhys really needed, Tim realised, was a way to forget he was in his body. It seemed like everything made him uncomfortable. His head hurt. His body ached. Sometimes he trembled with a chill, sometimes he boiled with the fever.

“This is horrible.” Rhys flung himself back onto his bed. “I’ve never been this sick.”

“Not even when you were a kid?” Tim asked. Rhys shook his head. “Seriously? Did you pay some poorer kid to get sick on your behalf?”

Rhys scowled at the ceiling. “No. I just didn’t go to public school.” He closed his eyes and ran his one hand over his clammy face.

Tim put his tablet aside. “What do you need, boss?”

“I don’t know. Nothing’s working. I just feel… bad.” He stared up at the ceiling through his fingers for a few silent moments. “How do you feel about switching bodies for a while?”

 “Sorry, boss.” Tim sat down at the foot of the bed.

“We could try,” Rhys said hopefully as Tim pulled his sheets aside. “Maybe if we clap our hands and wish…” He frowned. “I suppose you’ll have to fetch my other arm if we’re going to clap.”

“You don’t need it. If it didn’t work for me ‘n Jack when we were kids, I doubt it’ll work now,” Tim said, pulling Rhys’ foot into his lap.

Rhys pushed himself up as best he could with one arm. “Maybe it did work and you didn’t notice. What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’d notice.” Tim took his foot in both hands and pressed his thumbs against the underside.

“What—what are you…” Tim performed his ministrations carefully, kneading into the muscles of the flat side of Rhys’ feet. Rhys thawed and lowered himself back onto the bed. “Oh. Oh, that’s not bad.”

“Athena an’ me used to do this for the other when we were camping in Sulaimon,” Tim said, without looking up from his work. “Staying in damp caves, dressed in damp clothes, and not eating enough food became a lot more tolerable when we had something else to focus on for a while.”

Rhys managed a hum in response. He closed his eyes. More miraculously, he closed his mouth as well.

“Course,” Tim said, gently setting his foot aside and picking up the next one. “Our feet could get awful ripe in those boots. You had to develop a certain tolerance for stink. Then again, considering what else I might’ve been smelling in that shithole…”

“Tim.” Rhys barely moved his lips. “Less talk about your horrific mercenary experiences, please.”

“Sorry.”

“Talk about something cheerful. How’s Angel?”

Tim bragged about his niece and how well she’d been doing in the fancy private school Jack had set her up in while he worked on Rhys’ other foot. He talked about the new series of drawings she’d given him, all of which had found their way to his already over-crowded refrigerator.

“Although she’s stopped drawing cows and sheep and chickens and whatnot. Now she’s giving me pictures of robots,” Tim said. “I guess she’s moved on from her agriculture phase and into a machinist phase.”

“You’ll need a new fridge soon,” Rhys said.

“Great. Something to keep all the groceries I never eat because I’m never home,” Tim said.

Rhys’ lips quirked into a very small but very smug smile. “Don’t act like you don’t love being here.”

Tim took a breath and looked away from Rhys’ face. He felt grateful, in that moment, that Rhys was not looking at him. He worked in silence for several moments.

“I hate your kitchen,” he said, when he was confident in his voice. “I think it wants to eat me.”

“It won’t. It recognizes you as a friend.”

“Ugh,” Tim said.

Rhys nudged him with his foot. “Relax. Nothing in here wants to hurt you.”

Tim would not look up at Rhys’ face. He would not have looked at his insane, infuriating boss at that moment for any amount of money.

“That’s a relief,” he said. He had other things on his mind, other things he might’ve said. But that would do for now.

* * *

Rhys fell asleep while listening to Tim speak about the latest book he’d taken out of the library. He fell asleep with Tim’s hands on him. He stirred only a little when Tim lifted and deposited him gently back onto his pillows. He mumbled something without meaning, something Tim tried to listen to anyway.

At peace and undisturbed at last, Tim fixed himself a peanut butter sandwich (sprouted grain bread and organic, naturally) and checked his inbox. When that became too depressing, he looked at his phone.

There were no more messages from Athena. To his mild surprise, however, there was a text from Janey, asking if he was doing alright, if he needed anything.

Such a simple, sweet gesture, offered to him without a second thought. Janey was the sort of person to ask strangers at bus stops what they needed, and give them whatever they asked for. He considered what he might need in that moment. A lot of things came to mind, and none he wanted to share with her.

He snagged an apple from the bowl and returned to his chair in Rhys’ room.

Janey: u sure?  
Tim: I’m good thanks though.  
Janey: kk  
Janey: how’s it going in crazyburg?  
Tim: Fine. He’s asleep.  
Janey: u gonna go home soon?

Tim looked over to where Rhys was drooling all over his silk pillowcase.

Tim: In a bit.  
Janey: kk  
Janey: hey jsyk Athena’s sorry about b4  
Janey: she’d text you herself but she’s at the gym and she hasn’t told me yet  
Tim: lol  
Janey: but I know my wife  
Janey: shes just worried about u  
Tim: Why? I’m fine.

His grandmother had carved certain hard lessons into him, ones that would take a lot to unlearn. How to walk silently. How to read the little signs of a building rage. How to take a hit. How to bury his true thoughts behind a bland smile or a blank stare. How to lie.

Still, it never felt good, lying to his friends. Janey especially.

Janey: u haven’t been around much lately  
Janey: since u took this job  
Janey: it's like it's become ur whole life  
Tim: It’s not like that.  
Tim: I’m just busy.  
Janey: that would be fine if u were busy living ur life  
Janey: but it feels like ur putting your development on hold  
Janey: ur letting this job become ur life  
Janey: ur being monopolized  
Janey: when was the last time u met someone new?

That stung. Tim looked out the window, out where the city’s lights came on one by one against the blue-black sky. The smart lighting had adjusted itself as soon as it sensed Rhys’ slowing pulse, the evening out of his breathing. The room had gone dark, save for a solitary golden light atop the nightstand.

Reflected in the window, Tim could see himself, slumped over in an expensive Nordic chair, the blue shine of his cellphone screen, the red blur of the apple held loosely in his other hand. He couldn’t see his face, which was a small blessing.

Janey: I’m not trying to attack u timmy  
Janey: we all love u  
Janey: we just want you to be happy  
Tim: I’m not unhappy.  
Janey: ok  
Tim: But thank you.  
Janey: ok  
Janey: love ya mate <3  
Tim: You too, Janey.  
Janey: go home soon ok?  
Tim: I will.

He didn’t.

* * *

Tim woke with a start, breathing hard from a half-remembered nightmare. He blinked hard, scrubbed both hands down his face and tried to figure out why the hell he fell asleep in a chair.

The smart light roused itself from its glow-bug setting to something a human being could see by. Rhys’ tasteful bedroom set bathed in a very gentle golden light. And with it, Tim remembered.

Rhys’ apartment. His room. Right.

Rhys was still asleep, sprawled on his belly. His face still looked pink under his hair, but he looked better. Tim sat back with a sigh and debating checking his phone.

He should go home. Rhys didn’t need him anymore. He could come back in the morning, if he was really worried. Even better, he could just send him a text first thing and Rhys could respond that way. They wouldn’t even have to meet.

There was no reason to stick around. None at all.

Tim didn’t move.

You idiot. You fucking dumbass. What do you think you’re doing here? Do you think he’s going to wake up from his cursed sleep and fall in love with the loyal prince?

Except you aren’t a prince, dummy. You’re a servant. A grunt. A killer. Nothing special.

Give up the fairy tale, Tim. It’s not going to happen. Go home.

“’im?”

Tim straightened from his slouch. Rhys’ regarded him with one open eye, his brow furrowed.

“What… what’re you doin’ here?”

It would be silly to find that hurtful. Stupid to feel it like a kick in the chest. Good thing Tim wasn’t silly or stupid.

“Sorry, boss. I must’ve fallen asleep. I’ll just…” He placed both hands on the chair, pushing himself up.

“’s big bed,” Rhys mumbled.

“Yeah, I know.” Tim looked around the room for his suit jacket. Had he taken it to the door before? If only the fucking lights could smarten up and illuminate more than three inches in front of his face.

Rhys sighed and let his head flop back onto the pillow. “Where’re y’going?”

Tim froze. Rhys’ arm flailed weakly in his direction. Tim obediently stepped forward until Rhys could hook his fingers into his shirt and tug him towards the mattress.

“’s a big bed, stupid,” Rhys said. “You can use the other side.”

Tim swallowed hard. He would have to be a stupid man indeed to let those words get to him. To set his heart pounding.

“I’ll get sick,” Tim said, even as he knelt onto the mattress.

“You spent th’ whole day with me,” Rhys said. “You’re already gonna get sick.”

“That’s good to know.” Tim carefully selected one of the few pillows Rhys hadn’t sweat or drooled on. “Does that mean I can expect this level of personal care from you when I inevitably get the devil’s illness?”

“Yeah,” Rhys said through a yawn. Like it was nothing.

Only a very stupid man would take him seriously.

“G’night, Tim,” Rhys mumbled.

Tim lay back on his side of the bed. He folded his hands over his chest and stared up at the blue ceiling. The lights went back down. Beside him, he listened to Rhys’ breathing even itself out once more.

It really was a big mattress. After a while, Tim closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> five thousand words, though. why am i like this.
> 
> Anyway, expect more from this trash verse. I've already written another story, and a third is currently in production.


End file.
